


Painful and Necessary Acts

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Cannibalism, Community: dramione_remix, Dark, Dramione Remix Fest, Explicit Language, F/M, Gore, Horror, Implied Sexual Content, Movie: The Silence of the Lambs (1991), Post-War, Remix, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:59:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: Azkaban prison is no longer a place for men to rot. It is a place of rehabilitation. But not all men can be rehabilitated. Indeed, not all men want to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to my beta, dormiensa, for thinking of chicken, betaing, and Brit-picking. 
> 
> This fic was written for the 2013 Dramione Remix. My couple was Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling from "The Silence of the Lambs". I had wanted to see this couple written for a long time, but round after round, they remained untouched. So I honored the fan-author motto and wrote the fic I wanted to read. 
> 
> I’m not J.K. Rowling or Thomas Harris. I’m not making any money from this; I’m just having fun playing in the sandbox. I’ve also adapted six quotes from the source – a few from the movie ‘Silence of the Lambs’ and (I believe) at least one from the book. I have referenced them at the end of the fic to avoid a lawsuit.

**Chapter One**

Draco Malfoy lay on his cot, waiting. His back hurt with a low frequency, ever-present ache that kept him up nights and had him moving stiffly most days. His posture was deteriorating because of it, but attempting to find a more comfortable position would have been a waste of time. His cot was formed from iron bars bolted across one six-foot long portion of his perfectly square cell, and his hay-filled mattress was not even as thick as the length of his hand.

Comfort, like so many other amenities Draco had taken for granted, was a luxury not afforded to the prisoners of Azkaban.

The morning alarm sounded with a grating buzz, and Draco's waiting ended. He sat up and swung his legs over his bed, wincing as his bare feet contacted the cold stone floor. Three years he had been locked up, and the part he still hated most was the lack of shoes. His feet had been beautiful once, soft and pale and pampered, rarely walking on anything rougher than fine-grained sand. But now his heels were thick with calloused skin and nearly black with grime, and his toenails, where he still had them, were cracked and broken.

When he looked at his feet, Draco could almost imagine that they were someone else's. That some vagabond had wound up in this wretched place, and that he was still free, still a part of the world and its frenzy. Then, he would stretch his toes, and the illusion vanished. Those were his feet, this was his body, Azkaban was his world.

He pushed himself upright and stretched out his back until only the pain remained. He turned around and inspected his cot. Except for the indentation his body had made, it was perfectly tidy. The edges of his grey wool blanket were tucked beneath the mattress and his thin pillow, yellow with his sweat and the sweat of countless others, sat centered atop it.

His mother would have been proud.

The errant thought made him frown. The shame of his father's imprisonment had almost destroyed her. He could not imagine what she would have done had she been alive when they had gotten him. It almost made him glad she was dead.

But now was not the time to reminisce. He shook the thoughts away and drew the blanket off the bed. He balled it up, reached over, and tossed it into the open bowl of his toilet.

Once one moved past the complete lack of autonomy, prison life was not so different from life on the outside. Social stratification was based on respect, which was earned by reputation (the crimes one had committed) or currency (the favours one could perform). Draco's crimes were considered especially abhorrent, which was fortunate, as he was not keen on performing favours for anyone, no matter what good it did him.

Being respected had its boons. If he wanted something from the men buying their way up in favours, he only had to ask, and he did not have to worry about repayment. If he felt as if he were in danger, he could find strong men, ambitious but not clever enough to rise on their own, who would attach themselves to him without a second thought. He could sit where he wanted, stand where he pleased, speak without fear of retaliation, and command within reason. Draco could get whatever he wanted—and usually did.

Except none of it mattered. He was still a prisoner, hardly a citizen and, to many of the guards, hardly even human. Earning their respect was nigh impossible, and so, to get what he wanted, another form of manipulation was necessary. It was what his father used against ethical Ministry employees and scrupulous business owners (the few of them that existed) and what Draco used now. It was unexpected and untraditional, but the outcomes gained were unusually predictable.

Draco would have to perform a painful and necessary act. He would have to sacrifice of himself for a long-term gain.

He repressed a sigh, trying not to think about it, when the sliding bolt lock on his cell door disengaged. He stepped to the left and positioned himself in front of his cell door. Though it swung open, Draco made no attempt to leave. He might have been tempted had he been assigned to another level, but on his level – Level Three – poking so much as a toenail through the wards was asking for a future in a straight jacket and a padded room.

Zacharias Smith walked into view. Smith was an unnaturally cruel Hufflepuff whose sadistic streak tripled when assigned to Draco's end of the level. Draco clenched his jaw; today's necessary act was going to be particularly painful, then.

Smith's beady blue eyes inspected Draco then the cell. He frowned as he saw the unmade cot and gaped when he saw the blanket, which had turned black from absorbing the toilet's water. He looked back to Draco with a malicious smile and shook his head. He jabbed his wand at the cell.

The wards shimmered as one layer, the one with the Deafening Spell, peeled away. The routine sounds of prison life trickled in: the low hum of guards' voices giving orders to silent inmates, the grating of rusty metal-on-metal as cell doors ground open, the light, musical tinkling of chains wrapping around limbs and scraping against the floor.

And Smith's voice, mocking and strangely high-pitched.

"I believe you've just made my day, Malfoy." He glanced at the toilet and grinned, as if he could hardly believe his good fortune. "No rations for you today!" He waved his wand with a cheerful flourish. Sharp pain seared across the back of Draco's hands. He did not need to look to know what had appeared: two upraised slash marks, shining red, unmistakable, and unable to be hidden.

The canteen was a miserable, grey-beige room with a collection of immovable tables and benches the same shade. The canteen workers themselves were even worse. Greasy and pock-marked, they jealously portioned out the food as if it were fine caviar and champagne instead of boxed potatoes and tinned meat.

Being denied slop that would not feed an elf did not bother him. It was the leniency of the punishment that made Draco furrow his brow. Smith jabbed his wand at the cell again. A larger, longer-lasting shimmer signaled the removal of the Defense layer. Draco stood his ground as Smith stepped through the door.

"Assume the position."

Draco did, turning around and stretching his arms so that his hands met at his lower back. Tight rings of cold iron closed around his wrists. Dangling between them, bumping gently against the back of his legs, was an iron chain. Another set of chained restraints fastened around his ankles.

"I had a dream last night," Draco said quietly.

Smith's hand closed around Draco's arm.

"Funny, so did I. Your mother was there, and she was begging me to give it to her. I told her I'd rather fuck a Flobberworm than her withered old cunt. Then, I gave it to her up the arse."

A frisson of anger vibrated through Draco's body. He closed his eyes. He needed to remain in control if he wanted to pull this off without being charged with another count of murder.

"I, too, dreamt about a woman. A journalist."

The temperature in the cell dropped ten degrees. Smith's wand dug into the back of Draco's skull.

"You shut your fucking mouth before I curse it off you." His voice was low and calm until the very end, when Draco thought he heard it tremble. He may have imagined it, but he had to take the chance.

"It was _her_ fault, when you think about it. She shouldn't ever have come. She knew it, too, but that's the problem with journalists, isn't it? Tenacious, brave to the point of idiocy, arrogant enough to think that, since their pictures are in the paper and they've achieved some scrap of fame, they can't be touched."

Draco glanced over his shoulder. Smith was pale and shaking, his eyes vacant, lost in the story. Draco spread his lips into a slow grin.

"We touched her," he whispered. Smith's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "She moaned as we pulled off her suit. I thought she was enjoying it." Draco chanced a chuckle and looked away, once more facing the back of his cell. "Maybe she did."

He closed his eyes and heard the moment Smith jerked himself out of the past. The guard's fist sailed toward the back of his head. Draco dodged it and spun to the left while Smith, unprepared to miss, stumbled forward. Draco whirled at once and yanked his left hand upwards with enough force to dislocate his right shoulder. The pain was sharp, but the satisfaction of his fingers closing around Smith's throat was infinitely sweeter.

"Your sister was rude to me, Smith," Draco said with a hiss. His lips brushed against Smith's ear. " _I eat the rude_."

Smith's knee crashed into Draco's groin. Nauseous, roiling pain wrapped around Draco's gut and squeezed, and his hand dropped from Smith's throat as his body curled in on itself. The next kick brought Draco to the floor. The third shattered his dislocated shoulder.

A hollow laugh shuddered from deep within Smith's chest. He squatted down, rolled Draco over, and slapped at his face. "Look at me. Look at me, you fucking freak." He did. Smith's face was distorted, blurred by reflexive tears, but there was no mistaking his drawn countenance or the deep loathing in his eyes. He clamped his hand around Draco's throat.

"I would love to be the one who kills you. I think about how I'd do it. I could stab you, or set you on fire, or hold your head under water until you couldn't fucking breathe…" His grip tightened; Draco could not fight the encroaching blackness. Just before he lost consciousness, Smith relented. "But I think I'll love making the rest of your miserable life a living hell just a little bit more."

With a shove, Smith pushed himself up. He sent a glance over his shoulder into the hallway and, seeing no one, kicked Draco once more. "On your feet, ferret."

Draco took a deep breath, rolled onto his side, and heaved himself into a sitting position. But his progress was not swift enough. Smith yanked Draco up by his arm. There was a quick pop and another burst of pain as his broken shoulder slid back into its joint.

With a wand pressed hard between his aching shoulder blades, Smith walked him down the cellblock, through two sets of warded checkpoints, and past the canteen. The pain in his shoulder intensified with every step, and Draco almost sagged in relief as the crossed wand and bone of the medical center door came into view.

Smith walked him right past. He felt Draco tense and laughed. "You're going straight to Seclusion once this is over."

The anger Draco felt earlier returned with all the force of a locomotive.

"That's against regulations."

"Like I give a fuck."

"Bastard."

"Cannibal."

Draco bared his teeth and whipped his head around to stare at Smith. "She was delicious."

Smith jabbed his wand hard into the back of Draco's head, and a crushing wave of dizziness almost sent him to the floor. The corridor spun, the lights and walls racing into impossible configurations, and the intense candlelight made jagged pain rip through his skill. He could do nothing but close his eyes and try not to vomit, so he did just that, letting Smith lead him to wherever they were going. Smith was careless with his direction, letting Draco collide face-first with walls and closed doors. Eventually, their journey ended, and Smith deposited Draco into a chair with a forceful shove.

He left, and Draco took the time to hang his head between his legs and breathe. By the time the post-breakfast alarm buzzed, Draco could open his eyes for brief periods. In his first, quick glance, Draco saw that Smith had taken him to Level Three's only conference room. His second registered a plain, wooden lectern standing a few feet before him.

It was enough information for the present, and Draco kept his eyes shut until he heard the shuffling, clanking footsteps of the thirty-nine other Level Three inmates. When the room began to fill, Draco forced his eyes open and kept them that way. Weakness was weakness, and it was unwise to show any in such an opportunistic environment.

One such opportunist took the chair to his left. Even though it made him want to puke, Draco nodded in greeting to Theodore Nott, who stared at him with narrowed eyes.

"You look like shite" was his assessment.

"I have had a difficult morning." That much was safe to admit.

Draco watched out of his peripheral vision as Nott feigned a stretch. He sent a casual look over his shoulder, his eyes sweeping over the back row of guards. "Smith looks like he's had some difficulties, too. Looks like he's ready to kill you, in fact."

"I always pegged him for a bit of a psychopath."

"Dizzying hex?"

Nott's voice was low, but Draco flicked his eyes to the inmate at his right. The man didn't seem to have heard. Nott nodded, interpreting his silence correctly.

"You deserve it?"

"Do I ever? Though I probably shouldn't have reminded him that I killed and ate his sister."

Nott raised an eyebrow in surprise and amusement. "In that order?"

It was as if he were there again. The woods were dark and the air was warm – summer's final breath before autumn. Catherine Smith's fair skin was even paler against the dark stone of his altar, and it was smooth and warm beneath his palm. She writhed before him, bound and afraid, and her body arched upward as he drew his wand slowly, reverently down her body, parting her blouse and her brassiere. He moved them aside, again using his hands, letting her become accustomed to the feel of him.

He hushed her, laid his palm against her forehead, told her to breathe. He was calm as he met her eyes, and for a moment, she was calm, too, mistakenly believing that it really _was_ going to be okay. That he would smile and let her go and find someone else.

That hope was what he needed to see, the cue he needed to flick his wand down her body again, not gently, not slowly, but quickly and efficiently, as practiced as a Healer performing surgery. He opened her along her midline, cutting through skin and muscle and bone without resistance. Blood welled then gushed, pouring over her breasts and pooling upon the stone. Her ribs broke with a satisfying crack, exposing heaving lungs. He moved those away, desiring only what hid below, the organ that had given her life and would give him his. He could still taste her, still feel the meat between his teeth and the burst and the warmth of her blood in his mouth.

Draco's skin prickled, and he grinned. "Not entirely."

Nott grinned, too, and settled his thin body into the chair. He relaxed, no doubt unfolding into his own memories.

Nott had been a sociopath for longer than Draco—had been born one, whereas Draco had been made. He had kept it well-hidden at Hogwarts – did his work, kept quiet, and kept to himself. When the pressure of containing his desires became too much to bear, he snuck into the Forbidden Forest to hunt and kill.

Though Nott was careful, he was far from perfect. One beast turned to two, then four, and then a whole forest could not satisfy him. He let go too often, had too little control over himself and his urges for his lifestyle to be sustainable, and he had never caught on to the intricacies of human emotion, to say nothing of faking them.

His lack of remorse and utter inability to empathize led to his eventual arrest. Nott was accused of slaughtering at least twenty women who were all around age forty and looked like his deceased mother. The actual number of women Nott had murdered was likely much higher, but twenty was more than what the Wizengamot needed to sentence Nott to life in prison. He was one of the few inmates on Level Three whose conviction had nothing to do with the Great War.

Mutual respect for each other's craft had brought them closer than sharing a dormitory ever had. Draco trusted Nott as much as one could trust a serial murderer.

Nott started and the room quieted as a silvery wisp shot through the front wall and materialized into a large toad. It settled upon the lectern looking grumpy and dissatisfied, as if it had better things to do with its time.

"Patronus again," muttered Draco. "Funny how these _sweeping reform_ announcements never seem to include a visit from the reformers themselves."

"Levels One and Two get visits, I've heard," Nott said, "but they're harmless. White collar criminals, morons who broke the Statute of Secrecy. We're torturers, murders, rapists, and cannibals." Nott turned to Draco with a serious expression. "Why would any sane person _want_ to visit?"

Draco breathed a laugh through his nose. "You have a point."

The toad cleared its throat and began to speak.

"The Great War ended nearly five years ago, but its effects are still felt throughout our world, and nowhere more strongly than here, in Azkaban prison. You are the guilty, the ones on the wrong side of history. Years ago, it would have been our custom to leave you here and to think nothing of what you may be suffering as a result of your convictions." The toad paused, as if reflecting upon how much he missed that custom.

"Those days are gone." Yes, the toad definitely sounded depressed about that. "We have learned from our past, seen our mistakes through new eyes, and have set our course toward reversing the mindsets that put you here in the first place. It started with Phase One. The Dementors were banished, and hundreds of jobs were created as a wizarding workforce was specially trained to keep the peace. Phase Two focused on your quality of life: establishing a code of conduct memorized and followed by each guard and prisoner…"

"Yeah, right," muttered Nott, as Draco subtly readjusted his injured arm. Guard misconduct was an ordinary part of prison life; whether this misconduct was well-hidden or the administration was willfully ignorant of it, Draco could not say.

"… several activities to provide structure and a break from monotony, and introducing an improved canteen system to keep morale at an acceptable level. Phase Three will focus on rehabilitation. Starting tomorrow, each prisoner will be assigned a PsychoSocial Healer. You will each have one, sixty-minute session per week to discuss your past, your present, and your future. Reports from your Healer will be used in determining your chances for level reassignment, parole, and – in some cases – early release and job placement services. I advise you to use this time wisely and take these sessions seriously. They may be the only chance you have."

Abruptly, the toad dissolved. Draco turned to Nott, but the buzzer sounded before he could speak.

"See you in a few days," Nott said as he rose to exit.

Draco nodded and watched as he and the other inmates left. When the room was nearly empty, Smith appeared at his shoulder. He grabbed Draco's injured arm and tugged him to his feet with a mean smile. They retraced their path past medical and the canteen and, instead of turning right and heading back to the cellblock, turned left.

The corridor narrowed as they traveled farther from the common areas, finally ending in a medieval lift. The front grate closed with a metallic slam, and the cart grated against stone and mortar as it slowly drew them up, past the administrative offices and the Castellan's ward. After nearly a minute of travel, the grate opened with another slam and a blast of frigid air.

Draco scowled as Smith shoved him out of the lift and into a puddle of water. Seclusion occupied the topmost level and, aside from the exercise yard, was the only other open-air area in Azkaban. It would have been a welcome change from the stuffiness of the prison proper, but for Draco, it was not. Low, dense cloud cover was one of Azkaban's protections from Muggle detection, which meant that everything on this level was wet: the rough floors, the cell walls, and – after just a few minutes – any inmate sentenced there. Already, Draco's body had turned from warm to cold. His bare feet were thoroughly chilled, his thin robe soaked, and his hair plastered to his forehead.

Paths radiated out from the lift to the north, east, and south, and the thirty-foot-high walls made them look infinitely long. His cell – or the cell he considered his own, as that was where Smith always put him – was at the very end of the north branch. He began walking toward it before Smith could push him again.

Draco was not claustrophobic, but his heart rate quickened as the dark walls seemed to close in around him. He glanced up and felt a wave of dizziness that had nothing to do with Smith's hex and everything to do with vertigo. He looked back down and focused on the end of the hall, where his cell door hung open, waiting for him like an old friend. He went into it without hesitation and remained facing the wall as Smith locked the door and removed his chains.

"Three days," said Smith as Draco turned around, rubbing his wrists. He looked Draco up and down, his lips curling in disgust. "I hope it snows."

"Mid-January," remarked Draco. He glanced at the small square of grey-blue sky visible from the cold, damp floor. "You might get your wish."

Smith sneered once more and walked away, muttering darkly. Draco watched him until the lift's grate closed then turned to look at his cell. It was smaller by one or two stones in both length and width. The floor was bare: no iron bed, no pillow, no sink. Nothing except for a bucket into which to shit and piss. Judging by the foul smell, it had not been emptied since its last occupant. Draco tried to take consolation in the fact that _he_ was most likely its last occupant, but that did little to lessen the stench.

He ran his left hand over the rough, pitted walls and smiled. It might have smelled worse than the other cells, and it might have been smaller, but no other Seclusion cell had rough walls. He had only been in two others, but each had walls that, either through natural erosion or through magic, were as smooth as glass and utterly un-climbable. During his three-year imprisonment, at least ten people had attempted to climb them and failed. They were usually brought out in body bags, but the few unlucky people who survived did not do so without substantial injury. Paralysis was worse than death, in Draco's opinion, though he understood why some took the risk.

Seclusion was a unique level for many reasons, but its main attraction was that it was unwarded. The Muggle-Repelling and Anti-Apparition enchantments all held, but there were no Deafening and no Defense. There was nothing to stop the inmates from escaping should they survive the climb.

Of course, there was much more to escape from than just the climb. Azkaban was six stories tall. Add the additional, thirty-foot walls of Seclusion, and it was nearly one hundred feet to the ground in some areas. Then, there was the prison's location in the middle of the North Sea. The water cold and rough, and the chances of surviving a swim to shore were infinitesimal. The chances of being picked up by a passing Muggle ship were not much better.

Still, there was a chance. And that was the true torture of Seclusion: _hope_. The knowledge that the path to freedom was clear and unguarded, that all it required was strength and cunning, was a terrible burden for most.

For Draco, it was an opportunity. One he quite literally had the rest of his life to figure out how to exploit.

He was well on his way. It had taken several attempts, but Draco could already make the climb up. It took him much longer than it should have, however, so his agenda for this stay was to find a faster way up and maybe even begin testing paths for the climb down.

But Smith had gone and cocked it up. His right arm was worse than useless, and it would be suicide to attempt the climb in less than perfect health. All he could do was sit against the wall and stare at the sky. He felt no sense of vertigo now; only weary resignation.

After three days and nine half-rationed meals of day-old rice and tinned beans, a guard named Bracks came to fetch him. Draco uncurled himself from his position on the floor and stood up stiffly, the ache in his back exacerbated by the cold and the wet. He did not bother hiding his homemade sling, which he had fashioned from several cloth strands ripped from the bottom of his prison robe. Destroying prison property was an offense punishable by loss of rations and yard time, but he didn't care.

Neither did Bracks. In fact, he was the one guard who understood. Bracks was an older man with dark skin and no hair, and he knew how it felt to be on the other side of the cell.

Draco did not know the particulars; Bracks rarely spoke, and when he did, he chose his words carefully and said them softly, never sharing a single shred of personal information. But Draco knew. It was in his eyes – dark, haunted eyes that never settled on one place for too long. It was in his hunched shoulders and the way he kept his distance from the iron bars, like if he were to touch them, he would be taken back, taken in, and kept forever from life on the outside. It was in how he treated even the worst prisoners as if they were human, even though, in some cases, they were not.

Draco respected him for that and, as such, never caused the old man more trouble than he had to.

"Mind if I take a look?"

"By all means."

Draco expected to feel his robe rising up around his legs and buttocks but instead felt it tearing along the seam of his sleeve. Their eyes met, and Draco nodded in gratitude: Bracks had spared him from further punishment.

Bracks swore as Draco's sleeve fell to the ground. Draco glanced at his shoulder, too, and was not surprised to see it covered with purple and green bruises.

"Turn around."—He did.—"I'm going to reach through the bars and move your robe," Bracks said. "I need to see your back."

Draco nodded and tried not to flinch as Brack's warm, dry fingers brushed against his skin.

Bracks swore again. "I still have to chain you," he said apologetically.

"I know."

Draco grit his teeth as the manacles pulled his arms together and pain shot through his arm, back, and neck. It was worth it, however, as Bracks hurried him to medical. He stayed just long enough to make sure that Draco was with a Healer then left to file a report about what he had seen.

Draco was not with the Healer for long. A diagnostic scan revealed a minor fracture in the head of his humerus and some cartilage that looked a little worse for wear, but it took no more than a wave of the Healer's wand to mend it. Then, Draco was released and escorted to the yard with the other prisoners.

The exercise yard was roughly half the size of a Quidditch pitch. Draco stepped carefully across the cracked stone to Nott, who stood where he always did, with his back to the corner of the prison and the twenty-foot, warded, unscalable fence. It was a defensive position, one that provided him a view of the entire yard, including its only entrance and exit. Not that he needed it, though. Nott was quiet, unpredictable, and well practiced at creative forms of murder. He was one of the most dangerous men on Level Three; only a fool would consider starting a fight with him.

Nott noticed his approach and unfolded his arms. "You survived."

Draco straightened his back and shoulders, ignoring the remaining pain. "You say it like you expected otherwise."

Nott shrugged. "It snowed."

"That it did," Draco confirmed. Any colder and he would have lost a toe or two. "How have things been?"

Another shrug. "Quiet. Normal."

"Have you been to rehabilitation yet?"

Nott's eyes flicked to Draco's face then away. He stared at the space just over his right shoulder. "Yes."

Draco's eyes narrowed. It was unlike Nott to be so twitchy. "And?"

Another flick. He re-crossed his arms. "It's fine."

"You are a shite liar, Nott," Draco said. "What did they do to you?"

"Nothing."

"Then what the hell is your problem?"

"You're about to be," he spat. His grey-green eyes snapped with anger. "Fuck off about it."

Draco felt his cheeks flush with slow-brewing anger. Nott did not withhold information from him, and neither did he refuse to share what he knew with Nott. They had an understanding, and reinforcing that rule was not something Draco wanted to do fresh from Seclusion. He took a step toward Nott, who tensed like a snake preparing to strike.

"Listen," he said, his voice low, "whether it's you or someone else, I don't care. But I _will_ find out what you're hiding from me."

"No, you won't."

Draco's tenuous grip of control snapped. He drove his hand at Nott, grabbing the sleeve of his robe and pinning him to the wall. Nott bared his teeth and suddenly, something sharp pressed into Draco's side. He glanced down and saw a bloody piece of sharp metal – the handle of a spoon that had been scraped against stone for years. If applied to the right place, it would be deadly. Where it currently was, threatening to perforate Draco's right kidney, it was indeed fatal.

Draco released Nott's robe. The shank disappeared back into Nott's sleeve.

They exchanged glares for a long minute. Draco broke first. He breathed out sharply through his nose and muttered, "Fuck you" before leaving Nott to stew in his corner.

It was only a matter of hours before Draco found out the truth and mere minutes before he decided what he would do about it.

When they were released into the yard the following day, Draco took a spot in the corner diagonal from Nott. The day was as they always were: windy, cold, and colourless. Everything was tinged in shades of grey, blue, and black, occasionally lined with the grey-white of ocean salt. Yet another part of prison life Draco despised. The constant spray of seawater made it so that he never felt clean. Salt was a part of him now, thick in his shaggy hair, clinging to his skin, and stinging his eyes so that he had to wince against it. The lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper than they should be, making him look older than his twenty-seven years.

He used to be handsome. He used to wear shoes. He used to be free.

His anger began to grow. There was more than one way to skin a woman, and there was more than one way to break out of Azkaban. If it meant that he had to perform another painful but necessary act, then so be it. His life of misery began its end today.

Draco set his jaw and squared his shoulders. The small sea of inmates parted before him as he stalked toward Nott. He felt them following close behind, sensing his anger and purpose and hoping for an explosion of both. Maybe the guards noticed. Maybe they did not. Either way, they did not interfere.

Nott spotted him coming and stood straighter, dropping his arms to his sides and clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Forty prisoners on Level Three," Draco said when he was a few feet away. "Each gets an hour with the Healer. What the toad failed to mention is that there are two Healers. _Two_ , Nott."

Nott's gaze was steady. "Drop it, Malfoy. You don't need any more trouble."

Draco chuckled, feeling eerily calm. He was close to Nott, now, almost there. "Maybe not. But since when has prison been about what we _need_?"

His last two steps were closer to leaps, and Draco channeled the force of his movement into his fist. It snapped into Nott's face, sending him reeling and colliding with the prison's stone wall. He swung again, but Nott was inhumanly fast, genetically vicious and brought his arm up to block the strike. His fist flew into Draco's kidney, and the dull pain of Nott's fist was punctuated with the sharp sting of his shank. Blood immediately began to seep from the wound and down his leg. Draco did not wait to get hit again, launching himself forward and flattening Nott against the wall, trying to pound the man's skull into it.

It was all blood and pain after that, his and Nott's. Men yelled, hands yanked at the collar of his robe and pushed him back into the fight. He slipped on the blood pooled at his feet, and he lost sight of Nott as he fell. A guard's heavy boot cracked his rib, and Draco wheezed and rolled as a screaming jet of red light seared the space just above him. Bodies fell around him, hitting the ground with fleshy thuds.

A Stupefy grazed him, turning his world black for a moment. He got to his knees, breathing his way through a crashing wave of disorientation. More hands grabbed his arms, yanking them together behind his back. Draco screamed as the wound at his side tore wider but choked as his broken rib pressed into his lung.

Two guards pulled him to his feet; Draco did not fight them. His eyes found Nott's, who was likewise trapped. The man was bloody, manacled, and furious.

"She'll destroy you!" Draco yelled to Nott. "She'll destroy you like she did me! And if she doesn't, I will!"

It was a theatrical addition, but effective. A guard held his wand to Draco's head, and Nott's rejoinder was lost in unconsciousness.

Draco woke in his Seclusion cell. His side throbbed and his breath came in short gasps, but he was alive. Yes, he was a little worse off than he wanted to be, but considering what Nott was capable of, a puncture wound and a broken rib were all very well, and Draco would bear them with a smile.

Phase One was officially complete, and it had gone swimmingly. Phase Two began now, and its success depended entirely upon knowing far more than he should.

He shut his eyes and rested, but footsteps approached before he could fall asleep. Draco struggled to his feet and met Bracks at the cell door. He looked at Draco with sad, disappointed eyes.

"Yes?"

Bracks sighed.

Draco's temper flared. "Quit with the dramatics, Bracks. I know what I'm doing."

"I don't know if you do," he said. He was angrier than Draco had ever heard him, as if his actions had been a reflection of Bracks' care. "Turn around," he ordered.

Draco turned and hissed in pain as Bracks manacled his wrists together. They walked to the lift slowly. A few prisoners occupied Seclusion cells, but Draco did not see Nott. They had probably put him down another corridor. Not like it mattered anymore. Draco had no further need to antagonize him.

The lift descended two floors to the administrative level, where the PsychoSocial Healers worked.

"Some advice?" Bracks spoke it like a question, though Draco knew it was not. "Keep your damn mouth shut. These Healers… they're not here for Healing. They want to get inside your mind. Study you, like you're some kind of animal."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

Draco raised his eyebrows as Bracks glared at him. "Keep your damn mouth shut," he repeated. He ushered Draco toward a door at the end of the hallway. "I'll be here when you get out."

Draco nodded and walked toward the door. He turned around to look at Bracks before he entered. "Thank you for your concern, Bracks, but don't worry yourself for my part. Despite what you think, I do know what I'm doing."

Bracks frowned; Draco smiled and took the final step. The door swung open without him having to touch it. Its un-oiled hinges squeaked quietly.

The office was as dimly lit as the rest of the prison, so it did not take long for Draco's eyes to adjust. There was not much to see. A large desk, a small bookcase, a chair, a couch, and a heavy-looking table sitting between them.

The focal point of the room, the entire reason Draco had started that fracas with Nott, sat behind the desk. Her hair was tied back in a professional bun, but that did not stop errant chestnut curls from escaping their confines to frame her oval face and bring out the amber of her almond-shaped eyes.

He didn't know how she found him. He was always so careful, always cleaned up after himself. He suspected one of his followers was less than faithful. Not a spy, in truth, just weak and avaricious – a man more interested in short-term gains than the promise of eternity.

Whatever had happened, whatever had been said, was enough. The Magical Law Enforcement Office surrounded Malfoy Manor with fifty of their best Aurors and Officers. They were smart, waiting until he had left the protection of the ancient wards before beginning their assault. One man against fifty was poor odds, so Draco simply laid down his wand and submitted to arrest. Weasley had chained him up with more violence than was necessary; Potter had taken one look at him and left, disgusted and victorious. And she?

She read him his rights like he was a common criminal. She accompanied him to the holding cells at the Ministry of Magic and made sure he was properly booked. She saw him to his cell, witnessed his interrogations, was present at his sham of a trial, and sat through his brief but thorough sentencing.

She had sentenced him to death, and he despised her for it. But he was not dead yet – just rotting, and waiting, and dreaming of escape. Of revenge.

And it all started here, with Hermione Granger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Written Spyglass Records of Healer Hermione J Granger, PsySoc., with Patient Draco L Malfoy

[Disclaimer: It is the purpose of a Written Spyglass Record to recreate, as faithfully as possible, what has been captured by the Spyglass. Interpretations of gesture, facial expression, attitude, and tone are subjective, are included in the written report at the discretion of the transcriber, and may not accurately reflect the speaker's intentions. Please reference the Master Spyglass Record before using this material in an official capacity.]

Transcriber's Note: Speech emphasis added where appropriate. Information relevant to Wizengamot Case #13792 (The People vs Hermione J Granger) has been underlined.

~*~

Azkaban Prison, 20:00, Feb. 10, 2006, Session One

_Prisoner Draco Malfoy (heretofore referred to as Malfoy) enters the room slowly. Healer Hermione Granger (heretofore referred to as Granger) is behind her desk, out of the Spyglass's scope._

" _Hello, Malfoy."_

_He holds himself stiffly. "Granger."_

" _Please, take a seat."_

" _I prefer to stand."_

_A pause. "Very well. You may be wondering – Is that_ blood _?"_

_Malfoy looks down at his stained robe. "It is."_

" _Haven't you been to the Healer?"_

" _I don't know."_

" _How could you not –"_

" _Why am I here?"_

_There is movement out of the Spyglass's scope._

" _That's a very interesting question, Malfoy. What do you think is the correct answer?"_

" _Your PsychoSocial bullshite won't work on me, Granger, so don't even try. Why am I here, in your office, at this very moment?"_

" _You almost killed Theodore Nott."_

_Malfoy laughs once, loudly. "I think I got the worst of that fight."_

" _Why did you start it?"_

" _Why do you care?"_

" _You two were close."_

" _And friends never argue?"_

" _What were you fighting about?"_

" _What is that?" Malfoy stares at the Spyglass on Granger's desk._

_She sighs. "Are you going to avoid answering every question you dislike?"_

" _Are you?"_

" _That is a Spyglass," she answers tersely. "They are standard issue in PsychoSocial therapy sessions. It will record everything we say and do, providing a record for my files while allowing me to engage with you and my other patients more fully. The Spyglass records are, of course, covered under the Healer/Patient Privilege. I reserve the right to share them with my coworker, Healer Chilton, but all others will require a Wizengamot warrant."_

" _And it sees everything?"_

" _Everything in front of my desk, yes. It records sound throughout the room_ _. " _

_Malfoy takes a moment to consider the information. Granger takes a few steps closer. Both are now fully in the Spyglass' scope._

" _Are you ready to sit?"_

" _What are you doing here?"_

" _I'm here to help you."_

" _Are you really?"_

" _Of course."_

" _If I were to propose that you're here to assuage your guilt from locking up men without a trial, I would be wrong?"_

_Her lips tighten, and she crosses her arms. "You had a trial." Her voice is quiet._

" _Sitting silently before a judge for three hours is not a trial," he says bitterly._

" _The evidence against you –"_

" _I was entitled to an Advocate!"_

_She raises her voice. " – Witness testimony couldn't be rebutted –"_

" _I was denied due process!" he roars._

" _It was war!" she shouts right back._

" _So, the law meant nothing?" Malfoy's nostrils flare. "You were tasked with upholding our laws, and you failed. You_ failed _, Granger! How does that taste?"_

" _If protecting the public meant overriding your civil liberties, then I'd do it again and happily. I would rather live with that than read about one more eviscerated corpse." Tense silence hangs between them. Granger's chest heaves with every breath. Malfoy studies her, suddenly calm, as if he had simply wanted to see how far he could push her._

" _If you desire a retrial, find an Advocate." Granger's tone is brittle and snide. "I'm sure there are a few who would still be willing to work with you."_

" _Maybe I shall."_

" _I encourage it, but on your own time. I'm a Healer; I am not qualified to dispense legal counsel."_

" _Are you qualified to Heal? Last time we spoke, you were destroying lives, not restoring them."_

_Granger adjusts her posture, lifts her chin. "I graduated from Hippocrates' School for the Healing Arts at the top of my class and spent two years shadowing PsychoSocial Healer Frederica Chilton at St Mungo's."_

" _And now the fledgling bird has been tossed from the nest to test her wings on the worst of the worst. Do you think that was wise, Granger? Aren't you afraid?"_

_Malfoy steps toward her. Granger does not move._

" _I am armed. You are shackled. I have nothing to fear_ _. "_

_Malfoy pauses for a moment then nods and takes a seat on the couch. His posture is relaxed: his hands rest at his sides and his fingers are unclenched. He looks comfortable._

" _Not yet, you don't."_

_Granger sits in the chair opposite him. Her posture is controlled and professional. "May we begin now?"_

_Malfoy spreads his hands. "As you wish."_

" _Why did you attack Nott?"_

" _He didn't give me what I wanted."_

" _And what did you want?"_

" _The only thing of any value in prison: information."_

" _About what?"_

" _About you."_

_Granger blinks (in surprise?) but recovers quickly. "Why me?"_

" _Why not? Am I not allowed to be fascinated by you, Granger?"_

" _Fascinated? I don't –"_

_Malfoy leans forward. "Would it surprise you if I said I always was,_ Mudblood _?" He laughs quietly and shakes his head. "That was my father's name for you. Mine, too, for a while, but it doesn't suit. I've seen your blood before, and it's just as red as mine. What I do wonder, though, is how it_ tastes _. Are you sweet, Granger? Or are you as bitter as you act?"_

_Granger's lips thin; she is not amused. Nor is she threatened. If anything, she looks annoyed. "It will take much more than blood prejudice and threats to get under my skin, Malfoy." Her voice is business-like and terse._

_Malfoy smiles and leans back again. "We'll see."_

" _In fact, I think this is the perfect moment to dive into some ground rules for these sessions and discuss our expectations. I already mentioned Healer/Patient Privilege. Do you have any questions regarding that?" Malfoy is silent. Granger nods once and continues. "There will be no physical contact between us at any time. Violation of this rule by me will result in my suspension. Violation by you will result in a Healer reassignment and – depending on the nature of the contact – additional punishments."_

_She lets the words sink in. Malfoy remains quiet. "Despite what you think, or what you may hear from others, I am here to help you. We will discuss what you want, but I expect you to be honest with me. I, in turn, will do my best to be honest with you."_

"'Do your best _.'" Malfoy laughs disingenuously. "I'm sure you will, Granger."_

_A bell chimes. Granger stands. "That's our time. I'll see you next week, Malfoy."_

_Malfoy stands and exits the room. Granger stares at the stain his blood has left on her couch long after he's gone._

~*~

Azkaban Prison, 20:00, Feb. 17, 2006, Session Two

" _I would like to review your file today."_

_Malfoy raises an eyebrow. "I thought these were_ my _sessions."_

" _They are. We should have gotten through your file in session one."_

" _Something you'd like to get off your chest?"_

_Her eyebrows lift, and she shakes her head. "Absolutely not." She flips open his folio, shuffles through several thick files, and selects one._

" _You grew up in Wilt –"_

_Malfoy sits up quickly. "Are we going to talk about my childhood, Granger? How tedious. You were there for most of it. Mother did not hug me enough. Father beat me one time too many. My need for control manifested as bullying during school and later…" Malfoy spreads his hands before him with a small smile._

" _Later, the Wizengamot found you guilty of twelve counts of murder and twenty-seven crimes against humanity, including desecration of a corpse, anthropophagy, and necrophilia," Granger finishes for him with a frown._

" _Aren't you well-informed."_

_His question is rhetorical, but she answers. "It's my job to be."_

" _It's a pity your information is inaccurate."_

" _Which part?"_

_Malfoy relaxes against the sofa. "Which do you think?"_

_Granger's face remains impassive; she does not want to play his game. He realizes this._

" _The necrophilia. My motivations were never sexual."_

" _What were they?"_

_He shifts position, tries to place his ankle on his knee, realizes he can't, and settles again with a tired look. "Have you ever experienced death?"_

_She hesitates before answering. "I have."_

_He considers her and, after a moment, shakes his head. "No, you haven't. Not like I have. You haven't felt the life drain from your body. Haven't felt your pulse weaken, and slow, and stop. I was clinically dead for five minutes once, Granger. Do you know what I saw?"_

_Her eyes are wide, her body tense and perched forward on her seat. She shakes her head. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees._

"Nothing _." His voice is a whisper. "A great and terrible nothing, vast and inescapable. A nothing so dense I was crushed by it. Consumed by it. When they brought me back, I couldn't remember myself. My name, where I was, what had happened to me… It was a week before I could recall what my life had been, but even now, it isn't complete. I don't remember who I took to the Yule Ball. I can't name the members of my sixth year Quidditch team. I'm not sure what year my mother died. People have told me the answers, but I don't_ remember _. I_ can't _remember. You don't know what that's like, to have whole sections of your life simply_ disappear _. It makes me wonder what else I will lose." Malfoy pauses for a moment. He looks haunted. "I'm not going to forget again."_

" _How does anthropophagy –"_

"Cannibalism _," Malfoy interrupts. "Don't be so clinical. It makes you sound… disingenuous."_

_Granger's cheeks colour. Malfoy notices, and his silver eyes gleam._

" _How are they connected?"_

" _I thought you read my file."_

" _You never disclosed it."_

" _That's right," he says, as if that's another detail he's only just remembered. "Why would I disclose it now?"_

" _Because it may finally do you some good. The announcement wasn't an exaggeration or a lie. Level reassignment, increased privileges…"_

" _Parole? Job assignment?"_

" _For some prisoners, yes."_

" _But not for me."_

_Another pause. "No." Her tone is firm; her voice soft. "Not those. Not for you. But you can still benefit. You just have to tell me what you want."_

_Draco looks down at his folded hands._

" _I appreciate your honesty with me, Granger." He sounds sincere. "In return, I believe I can be honest with you."_

" _That's a good decision. I want to –"_

" _But_ you _must continue to be honest, as well. That is how our relationship must work._ Quid pro quo _."_

_She furrows her brow. "You may ask a question that I may choose not to answer."_

" _As could you, but I advise against it. I believe you'll be surprised at just how intractable I can be."_

" _I highly doubt your ability to be stubborn would surprise me," she says, her voice deadpan, "but I will keep it in mind. There are certain aspects of my life, however, that must remain private."_

" _Aspects named_ Potter _and_ Weasley _?"_

_Granger's eyes harden. "Among others."_

_Silence hangs tense between them for a short moment, then Malfoy clears his throat._

" _Were you going to ask me a question, or shall we end here for the day?"_

_Granger does not miss a beat. "Why did you consume your victims?"_

" _I didn't."_

" _You're lying."_

" _I only consumed their hearts."_

"Why _?"_

" _To gain immortality. Why did you –"_

" _That's not an answer."_

" _It is."_

" _Not a good one."_

" _You never said they had to be."_

_Granger scowls. "Don't argue semantics with me."_

" _Semantics are all I have."_

" _Not anymore. These sessions can be worth something to you, Malfoy, but only if you take them seriously." A bell chimes. Granger looks frustrated; Malfoy looks nonplussed. "We will begin with an answer – a_ serious _answer – next time."_

~*~

Azkaban Prison, 20:00, Feb. 24, 2006, Session Three

" _Why did you consume the hearts of your victims?"_

" _I'm doing fine, Granger. Yourself?"_

" _Answer the question."_

" _Has it been keeping you up at night?"_

" _Malfoy."_

" _Thoughts of me? How titillating."_

"Malfoy _."_

" _You never did have a sense of humour," he remarks with a sigh. "Very well. Down to business."_

" _Why –"_

" _I heard your bloody question the first time it was asked," he snaps. "Are ready to listen?"_

_She nods._

" _The Horcrux ritual requires the splitting of a soul. This, as you know, is achieved through the act of murder. The time it takes the soul to cleave is infinitesimal, immeasurable, but for that moment, it is both inside and outside of the body. The trick to creating a Horcrux is timing. The incantation must be spoken at the exact moment of the soul's passing from inside to outside, from flesh to freedom._

" _The rationale is that if your soul is split enough and if the objects you stow them into are well hidden, you may achieve immortality. You know this, of course, so why am I telling you?"_

_He pauses and stares at her expectantly. She starts when she realizes that he waits on her answer._

" _I don't know."_

" _Because you know it doesn't work. You saw it fail. You were the_ reason _it failed."_

" _It was bound to, whether or not I played a part in it. True immortality is unachievable."_

" _I disagree."_

_She looks exasperated. "Malfoy…"_

" _Methuselah was the oldest living man on record."_

" _He's a myth."_

" _He is not," Malfoy says with a frigid glare, "and I would ask you to stop contradicting me at every single assertion. It is exceedingly_ rude _."_

_Granger clenches her jaw. Only when Malfoy is certain she can maintain her silence does he continue._

" _Several texts provide evidence –_ incontrovertible evidence _," he says loudly, forestalling her would-be interruption, "that Methuselah existed and lived for longer than his fabled 969 years. These same texts also document his secret: the regular consumption of human flesh._

" _Cannibalism is not as uncommon of a practice as society would have you believe. People have been consuming each other for centuries to gain strength, or power, or wisdom. To gain another's_ soul _. If enough souls are consumed, your life may be extended by centuries. Millennia, even."_

" _How?" Granger's voice cracks._

_Malfoy's lips twist into a wicked smile. "You don't think I'd give up the game so easily, do you? Besides,_ quid pro quo _, Granger. I believe it's my turn to ask a question."_

_Granger crosses her legs and does her best to look relaxed, but she seems tense. Nervous. It is unclear if Malfoy notices. "Very well. Ask your question."_

" _Do you enjoy your work here?"_

" _I do."_

" _Why?"_

" _I get to help –"_

" _No," Malfoy interrupts. "That's what you_ should _say. That's what they_ want _you to say. But that's not the reason. Not the real reason. You removed yourself from your two closest companions and a comfortable career in a comfortable place to dabble with the lunatics and the criminals. Happy people do not give up such opportunities so easily. Were you happy with them, Granger?"_

_Granger takes a breath. "No," she says on the exhale. "I was not."_

" _Why?"_

" _Because it wasn't easy. I was good in the field but not great. I was too distracted by Ha-… by the people around me possibly getting hurt. I had to protect them, but I couldn't. We would split up, I would get lost, I wouldn't see them for days. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, could barely even think. When I almost got one of them killed, I knew I had to leave."_

" _Why did you choose this?"_

_Granger shook her head. "It's my turn. Your group had a few dozen followers, but why involve anyone else at all? Wouldn't it have been safer to work alone?"_

" _Methuselah did not just consume any human flesh. He consumed the heart. That is why his sacrifices were virgins. Their hearts were pure and yet uncorrupted by man. For a time, it was considered an honour to be his sacrifice, but times change. It is not as much of an honor now, and if my victims will not come to me, and I could not go to them…"_

" _Bait," Granger realizes. "Your followers were lures."—Malfoy nods.—"Why did they stay with you? How were they involved with the ceremony?"_

" _How long have you known that you are like me?"_

_The question takes Granger off-guard. Her expression is one of horror quickly masked by indignant anger. "How… No. I am_ nothing _like you."_

_Malfoy chuckles. "Oh, come off it, Granger. We both know you're just as twisted." His eyes dance over her body. "Maybe you're worse."_

" _That's not true."_

" _Isn't it? Let's examine the facts." He counts her sins off on his fingers. "Age eleven, you set a professor on fire. Age thirteen, you altered the space-time continuum for your own gain. Age fourteen, you kept a reporter trapped in a glass jar for weeks. Age fifteen, you let a herd of centaurs abduct and rape a Ministry employee. Age nineteen, you orchestrated a public assault on a group of suspected Death Eaters, killing over thirty innocent civilians – Muggles and wizards. Age twenty, you participated in a battle which –"_

"Enough _!" Granger's eyes are glassy with tears. "Enough."_

_Malfoy's smile is cruel. "Not the behaviour of a balanced mind."_

" _I thought Snape was trying to hex Harry." Her voice shakes with emotion – anger, or fear, or… something else. "The Time-Turner was for my studies. Skeeter –"_

" _Don't patronize me, Granger!" Malfoy spits, leaning forward violently. His chains rattle and clink. "Don't_ lie _! I have no interest in the excuses you've told others to make them believe that you're a well-adjusted individual or the lies you've told yourself to rationalize your behaviour. Ends and means, my dear. That's what your sickness boils down to. Ends and means."_

" _I am_ not _a psychopath. I am_ not _like you."_

" _Do I detect a hint of uncertainty?"_

_For the first time during the session, she breaks eye contact. Malfoy lifts his chin (in triumph?)._ _They are both silent for five minutes._

" _Would you like to ask another question?" His tone is light, condescending. He is laughing._

" _I think we should end for the day."_

" _Very well. Until next week,_ Hermione _."_

_She shudders when he says her name._

~*~

Azkaban Prison, 20:00, Mar. 3, 2006, Session Four

" _You've been put into Seclusion again."_

" _Why can we never begin with a civil conversation?"_

" _What happened?"_

" _Is this your question?" She gives him an annoyed look, and he returns it. "You know what happened. You receive a dossier each morning concerning your patients for the day. Visits to medical, disciplinary actions, behavioural boons… Why bother asking?"_

_If she is surprised at Malfoy's knowledge, she does not show it. "I want to give you the opportunity to explain yourself."_

" _I'm sure Smith's report is thorough."_

_Granger frowns. "I don't trust Smith's report."_

" _And you trust me_ _?" Her mouth tightens, but she does not deny it. Malfoy smiles and licks his lips. "Careful, Hermione." His voice is a whisper; his silver eyes gleam. "People may say we're in love."_

_Granger ignores him, but it looks like it takes a fair bit of effort. "There's a pattern. Whenever he's assigned to your ward, you refuse to tidy your bunk, or he finds contraband in your loo, or you've destroyed your bedding, which leads to half rations, no rations, no yard time, and sometimes, Seclusion. Yet Bracks, another guard who's often assigned to your ward, has never filed a report."_

" _Bracks is a forgiving soul in an unforgiving place."_

_Hermione shakes her head. "No, that's not it. Bracks has a flawless work history record at this prison. He files reports when he needs to, follows protocol to the letter. Smith, on the other hand, has come under scrutiny for questionable practices more than once. I looked up his previous behavioural record."_

" _Tsk, tsk, Hermione. Is that even legal?" He smiles as if he knows (correctly) that it is not._

" _Smith's past is…_ colourful _."_

" _Is that a Healing term?"_

" _Animal abuse, spousal abuse, unpredictable bouts of temper… A position of power attracts people with that kind of personality, but they are ill-suited for it. Smith may use his position as a guard to abuse not only you but other prisoners as well. In fact, as he hasn't been reported for spousal abuse since he started working at Azkaban, I am reasonably confident that he is finding an outlet for his violent behaviour by using you and the other inmates. It's ironic, actually: working_ in _Azkaban is the only thing keeping him_ out _of it."_

_She pauses and looks at Malfoy expectantly. He remains silent. "If there is something about Smith that makes him unsuitable to work at this facility, you must tell me." She leans toward him, her voice earnest. "If he's breaking the code of conduct, mistreating you, taking advantage of his authority…"_

_A slow smile creeps over Malfoy's face. "You've proven me right." — She gives him a confused look. — "Smith is your next victim. Ruining one life under the pretense of bettering another's. A_ prisoner's _." He shakes his head. "Ends and means."_

_Hermione's cheeks flush pink. "That's not what this is. It is part of my job to assess and promote the mental health of the inmates. If I suspect a force within this prison is stunting the rehabilitation of even one of my patients, it is my duty to report it and, if the evidence supports my suspicion, make sure that it is removed."_

" _It is a tempting offer, but I refuse to enable you. Smith's report is accurate."_

_His tone quells further conversation on the subject. Granger purses her lips in annoyance but relents._

" _Very well. What would you like to discuss today?"_

_Malfoy simply stares. For the rest of the session, they are silent._

~*~

Azkaban Prison, 20:00, Mar. 10, 2006, Session Five

_Granger waits for Malfoy to settle before speaking._

" _The way we ended last week's session was unacceptable."_

" _You said these sessions were for me to discuss what I wanted. I didn't want to discuss anything."_

" _Then, you might as well not have come at all."_

_He gives her a wry glance. "Is that really an option?"_

_She breaks eye contact with him. "I've discussed your progress with Healer Chilton. We both agree that you are not benefitting from these sessions in the same way as the other patients."_

" _I wouldn't know." His voice is full of anger and suspicion. "The other patients refuse to discuss their progress with me."_

" _They are under no obligation to share their progress with anyone," she recites._

" _There may be no_ obligation _, but most men will sing operas if they're close to losing a testicle. Yet for all my threats, I haven't heard a single falsetto. Why is that, do you think? Have convicts finally learned respect for authority?" Malfoy continues before Granger can reply. "There is something else keeping them quiet, something far more important than confidentiality rules."_

_She furrows her brow, hesitating for a long moment, giving him the most searching of glances, then says with a sigh, "Yes. There is more to it than that."_

_Malfoy reclines, clearly proud of his intuition. "The Ministry never cared about 'rehabilitation'."_

" _It_ does _," Granger insists, "but it's only part of the reason PsychoSocial Healers were assigned to Azkaban. Why I, in particular, was assigned here. The battles might have ended five years ago, but the war is still trudging along. There are people out there – terrible people doing terrible things – and the Magical Law Enforcement Office simply cannot catch them. Every sting operation is foiled, every spy rooted out, tortured, and publicly executed. They mock us, hurt us, and prevent us from moving forward as a society. They need to be stopped._

" _We know the backgrounds of each and every prisoner in Azkaban – their families, their life history, their crimes, their known associates. It's what we_ don't _know that has become priority. Who are the middle-men, the people aiding and abetting this criminal behaviour? Where do they meet? How far into our society does this corruption run? This is information that you, as prisoners, will have. It is this information that Healer Chilton and I were tasked with retrieving."_

" _Murderers and rapists and cannibals are notoriously skillful liars."_

" _There's a way around that."_

" _Legilimency, then? Don't tell me you are trained in that Dark Art, too."_

" _I'm not, neither do I need to be_ _. We've developed a type of hypnosis called Retrieval, which allows us to target a memory or a group of memories to view and record. These records are sent to MLE specialists, who analyze and compare them to others within their growing database. If the information they find seems legitimate, the prisoner is rewarded. The more useful the memory, the greater the reward._

" _The process of targeting and recording these memories is not without substantial risk. There is a strong likelihood of the subject developing depression, insomnia, night terrors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, mania, hallucinations, and suicidal tendencies. We try to identify Retrieval candidates through a series of counseling sessions. Usually, we know whether or not a patient would be useful by the end of session one, and we know whether or not he would be interested by the end of session two."_

" _How do you gauge interest?"_

" _By asking them what they want and what they would do to achieve it. You…" She sighs and crosses her legs, looking into the middle distance. "You do not seem to want anything."_

" _I do," he says softly. Her eyes snap to his, but he looks away from her, towards her desk, presumably at the office's single window. "I want a cell with a view of more than grey sky. I want to eat a meal that doesn't consist of overcooked rice and undercooked beans. I want to sleep on a mattress made of something other than straw and on a pillow that doesn't smell like urine. I want a hot shower, a clean shave, and a pair of shoes." He looks at her once more. "I want my_ life _back, Granger. I want to feel like more than just a worn cog in an old machine. Can you do that for me?"_

_Her shoulders relax and a small smile tugs at her lips. "I'll try,_ _Draco _ _. I'll try."_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"And you _truly_ believe he is being sincere?" Frederica asked. It was the third time she had posed the question, and, for the third time, Hermione noticed her mentor's condescension. It grew more pronounced with each iteration.

"I do," she answered. "As sincere as he is able to be."

Frederica frowned, unconvinced, and Hermione couldn't blame her. The case for performing Retrieval on Malfoy was thin to the point of nonexistence, but she was confident – absolutely _knew_ – that it was the next step. Whatever information she gathered from that process would be critical to the MLE Office's investigations, as well as her understanding of Malfoy. She could not let the opportunity pass.

Hermione reached into her satchel, pulled out a Spyglass record, and set it before Frederica on a stack of parchment. She then withdrew her wand and tapped the Spyglass. A recording of her latest session with Malfoy began to play. Frederica's eyes became unfocused as she listened, and she did not notice Hermione's too-slow withdrawal of her wand or how it lingered over the bottom of the topmost parchment.

Hermione willed herself to be calm as she brought her wand back into her lap and passed it over the piece of waiting parchment – a copy of the Retrieval request for Malfoy. Frederica's distinctive, loopy signature appeared on the bottom line. Hermione's heart raced as she stowed the forged form. She did not want to use it; the very idea made her slightly ill. But in the very likely case of Frederica's refusal, Hermione would have no choice. She _needed_ to know what was in Malfoy's head.

The recording stopped. Frederica sighed and rubbed her forehead with her hand. "I still don't think it's a good idea."

Hermione's heart fell and the queasiness in her but intensified. "Malfoy's memories could help the MLE Office make the connections they've been missing for years. This Retrieval may be our only chance."

"I realize that, but –"

"We came to Azkaban knowing the risks we could face. We can't stop just because those risks are finally manifesting. Harry _needs_ this, Frederica. The wizarding world _needs_ this!"

"Do they, or do you?"

Their gazes locked. Frederica's eyes were intense, studying her as if she were a patient. Hermione did not look away. "You've become close to him. Comfortable. I heard it in this session, and I heard it in your voice when we discussed his progress two weeks ago. Your connection with him concerned us both when we began here. It was why we agreed to assign him to me."

"Circumstances change." Hermione fought to keep her voice steady. She smoothed her skirt instead, allowing her nerves a more subtle outlet. "I knew that taking him on as a patient would be a risk, but after speaking to him, I don't believe he would have opened up to you or any other Healer. Some patients need a personal connection to feel safe. They need to be trusted before they can trust."

"An experienced PsychoSocial Healer can form personal connections without jeopardizing herself."

Hermione lifted her chin. "You think I'm in jeopardy?"

"Malfoy has controlled the majority, if not all, of your sessions. He has directed conversation and used his charm and your weaknesses to manipulate you into revealing personal information about yourself. It's not easy to resist a power like that, but you're young, and you share a history. You've lost sight of who he is."

Hermione tried to remain calm, tried to sound professional, when all she wanted to do was scream. "I haven't."

"Of _what_ he is," Frederica corrected, talking over her. "Of _what_ he's done. He's dangerous, and you underestimate him. I cannot allow you to perform a Retrieval on him."

"But Frederica –"

"I will perform it."

Hermione was struck dumb for a moment. "You'll what?"

"I will perform it. I think you're right to believe that Malfoy's memories contain important information. He was close to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for several years, and though he branched off as the Great War progressed, Floo records prove that he kept in contact with at least seven known Death Eaters, five of whom are still uncaught."

"He will never consent –"

"You will make him consent. You do not want a man like Draco Malfoy in your head, Hermione, but you can be damn sure that he does not want you in his, either. Use your shared history to your advantage. Regain control of your sessions, control of _yourself_ , and you can gain control of him."

Hermione was silent for a moment then nodded stiffly. "If that's how it has to be..."

"It is."

Another stiff nod. She rose. "Thank you, Frederica. I'll let you know what happens."

"Please do. And Hermione?" Frederica called as she reached the door. Hermione stopped, but did not look back. _Could_ not look back. Frederica would read her intentions too easily. "You know what he's done. _Be careful_."

~*~

Hermione waited for him in her usual chair but with none of her usual reserve. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, jiggled her foot, tapped her quill, and straightened the forged released forms.

She squeezed her hands together to stop herself from reaching out and tearing the forms apart. Stealing Frederica's signature was enough to have her removed from working in Azkaban but not quite enough (she hoped) to get her thrown into it. Her Healing license would be revoked, undoubtedly, and then… Well, she hadn't thought that far in advance yet.

And was determined not to. This Retrieval was going to be like every other one she'd performed. Malfoy just like every other patient she treated.

Except he wasn't.

Hermione fought against it, tried to remain impartial, and objective, and removed from him. But he was like a magnet, drawing her to him with an irresistible force. Where he moved, she looked. What he said, she heard. What he desired, she wanted to give. If what he desired was to eat a good meal and wear shoes, then she would try to give him that.

 _She_ would. Not Frederica. She knew instinctively that this was an important detail, that it was something Draco would find significance in and remember. It would help cement the bond between them. It would prove to him that she could be trusted, and that was important to her.

Why was it important at all? She had answered Malfoy's probing questions. She had been sharp and thorough and confident; was beyond reproach, according to the Spyglass records. But were those _her_ answers, or someone else's? Was she affirming what she believed, or was she reciting what she had been told?

Did Malfoy have a point when he said they were alike? Was she trying to ruin Smith's life like she had ruined Skeeter's and Umbridge's? If so, was that justice, or was it illness? She had left her job with the MLE Office because she could not control what happened to those around her. Did she then choose Healing to help others, or because it gave her more authority? Did she volunteer to work in Azkaban because her authority would then be close to absolute?

Hermione closed her eyes tightly and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to stave off a headache.

What was she doing? Why was she even asking herself these questions? Had Malfoy really wormed so far into her head that she could forget herself? When had her fascination with him turned into something dangerous?

Maybe Frederica had a point. Maybe she should tear up the papers and take her advice, maybe even foist his sessions onto Frederica entirely. She was more experienced, after all, and Malfoy was…

The door hinges squeaked, and Hermione stilled. It was too late now.

Her eyes could see nothing but him. His physical appearance had not changed since last week. His trademark platinum hair was dingy and cut short, and his cheeks and chin were covered in dark blond stubble. His robe was tattered and filthy, his feet were black with grime, and both his wrists and ankles were bound with thick iron manacles.

But there was something about the way he carried himself that made her pause. He held his head high and his shoulders square. His steps may have been small and shuffling, but they were purposeful. He walked like he was a free man, like the chains were an accessory that he could discard the moment he decided they were no longer _en vogue_.

His grey eyes snapped to her. Her breath caught with a gasp, and she thought she saw the corner of his mouth quirk. Her body went cold.

Malfoy was dangerous, and she had forgotten.

She nodded at him in greeting. "Malfoy."

He took a seat on the couch across from her and returned her nod. "Granger."

The silence persisted a beat too long. "How are you?"

His eyebrows rose. "Very well. You must be doing well, too. I don't believe you've ever started a session with civility."

"I spoke to Healer Chilton. She's agreed to the Retrieval."

She let the question hang and gauged Malfoy's expression. His grey eyes regarded her steadily. He looked bored, in truth, like he felt none of the moment's significance.

 _Because there was none_.

Hermione let out a breath and shook her head slightly, so relieved she could have laughed. She was overreacting. Harry and Ron always said she was prone to it, and Frederica's paranoia had sent her into a tailspin. There was no need to worry, and probably never had been.

Just like that, her excitement returned. Malfoy was a puzzle, and she was finally going to solve him.

"Are you still willing?" she prompted.

"I am."

Hermione pushed the release forms closer to him, along with a flimsy, pre-inked quill.

"The top form is an explanation of the process. It details what I'm allowed and not allowed to do, as well as the risks involved. The bottom form is a waiver stating that you understand the risks and are still willing to participate. It says that you will not hold Azkaban or me responsible for any side effects that may occur because of this procedure. I'll give you a few moments to read both. Please sign and date at the bottom when you are through. Then, we can get started."

Though she could not say for sure, Malfoy seemed to be aware of her eyes upon him; the way he turned the page and gripped the quill were too deliberate to be casual. He set down the quill and sat back. Hermione's hands shook as she gathered the forms. She glanced down at them.

"Everything seems to be in order." She looked back at him, her heart fluttering. "It's time to begin." She paused a moment, took a breath, and rose, smoothing her skirt. The two steps over to his side of the couch felt like a mile when he watched her with that kind of focus, and the room's temperature jumped ten degrees as she took a seat next to him.

Their knees were barely an inch apart. It was the closest they had been since his arrest.

"I'm going to touch you now," she said quietly. It was supposed to be a warning, but her voice shook too much for it to hold any threat. Instead, it sounded to her like a promise she could not wait to keep.

A small smile curled Malfoy's chapped lips, and he closed his eyes. Taking another breath, Hermione readjusted the grip on her wand and raised her hands. Her wand made contact first, resting lightly on his left temple. Her left hand followed, resting on the same spot on his right temple, just where his smooth hair shifted into stubble. His skin was disproportionately cold compared to the heat that simmered between them. It meant nothing; Azkaban's cells were not heated, and this part of the North Sea never really warmed up, even in the summer.

"Nervous, Granger?" The breath of his words ghosted against her cheeks. "I can hear your heartbeat."

That, of course, only made it beat faster. She cleared her throat.

"I want you to begin with your last victim, Rebecca Barnes." His brow furrowed. "Think about that evening. Focus on the details. Faces, locations, how you felt, what was said. Walk through it as if you were there again. Relive it." She paused for a moment, letting him gather his thoughts. "Are you ready?"

He nodded once. Hermione closed her eyes and cast the spell.

The air disappeared, and Hermione was sucked down into suffocating blackness. She felt a moment of familiar panic as she lingered in limbo, but no more than a moment. The world snapped back into place, and she was breathing not the stale air of her office but that of a cold winter's night. Yet, it was not winter as she experienced it, with the sense memories of crackling fires, hot cocoa, and warm slippers, but as Draco experienced it. Echoing halls, frosted glass, icicles as sharp as daggers. Draco exhaled a cloud of white crystal against the darkness of a dense forest at night.

The wind blew fiercely, but Draco was not cold. More appropriately, he recognized the sensation of cold and did not allow himself to feel it. Tonight was too important to waste energy on the weather. It was almost too important to waste on the three fools before him. They hunched down into their robes like old women, most of their heads covered by scarves and hats. What could be seen of their faces was blurred, as if viewed through a thick pane of warped glass. There was the impression of brown hair and medium build from all three but no identifying features.

One of the men spoke, but, like his face, his words were indistinct.

"Soon," came Draco's sharp reply. "Do not ask me again."

Silence persisted for several minutes. Draco's eyes flickered over the men only briefly; his focus was on the road just beyond the forest, on a pair of headlights that had flashed just beyond the curve of the hill.

One of the three men turned to look and muttered something that sounded like "Thank Merlin." The driver pulled the car to the side of the road, turned off the engine, and Disillusioned it. Four doors slammed and four sets of feet, making far more noise tromping through the wet underbrush than Draco would have liked, moved toward them.

He waited until the four additional men had spotted him before turning around and heading further into the forest. Draco moved swiftly; his prey was waiting.

The freezing temperature was a double-ended wand. The cold would slow her blood and help ease the burden of keeping her alive until he wanted her dead. But if she became too cold, she ran the risk of dying from exposure, which would defeat the purpose of the ceremony and, indeed, rob him of an experience that he anticipated keenly.

The men began to grumble as their walk continued. It annoyed him that they were so short-sighted, so hesitant to sacrifice mere moments for life everlasting.

For him, at least. He had shared the Methuselah Theory with his followers strategically. They believed that the consumption of _any_ human flesh, raw or cooked, would grant immortality. This, of course, was untrue. The heart – the seat of a wizard's magic, the seat of the soul, consumed raw and close to beating – was the secret. _His_ secret.

They were not worthy, anyway. Exhausted old fools, weary of the war, tired of life, yet unfamiliar with – and therefore afraid of – death. But fear was not a placeholder for respect, and it was only through a respect for death that true life could be gained.

Flickering orange light shone through the trees ahead. Draco's heart rate increased. He was typically in control of himself, even in anticipation of a feast, but this was different. This particular morsel never failed to get a rise out of him, emotionally or sexually. Their natures were compatible in all the wrong ways, like fire and accelerant. Each had potential individually, but the union of the two was where things became interesting. He had never experienced a union like this before. Tonight was going to be unforgettable.

The whinging behind him tapered off as the group spotted the bonfire. Just beyond the pit was an altar made of three fused stones. Once he was through, it would crumble to dust, erasing all the evidence.

His followers arranged themselves in a semicircle around the fire as he continued toward the altar. Draco smiled as he beheld his prey, revealing his pink gums and his sharp teeth. He ran his fingers over her curly, brown hair and leaned over her, his face just inches from her own.

The air disappeared, and Hermione was once again stuck in a vacuum. The Retrieval was over, but not before she had seen the face of the woman on Draco's altar.

Not before she had seen _herself_.

Hermione gasped as she felt the couch beneath her, and screamed as Malfoy's head slammed into her nose. The force of the blow sent her reeling backwards, colliding painfully with the arm of the sofa. Blood gushing into her mouth made it hard to breathe, pain radiating across her face made it hard to think, but the blurry sight of Draco rearing back for another attack sent her flying into action.

A silent Stupefy missed by mere inches, singeing across her office and exploding her bookcase. Chunks of leather and vellum, flakes of charred paper and daggers of splintered wood rained over them. Malfoy shielded his eyes, and Hermione's heart lurched. She shot off another spell, but he was faster, jamming his shoulder into her chest, sandwiching her against the sofa and causing her breath to explode from her chest.

Malfoy twisted over and scrambled onto her back-first as she tried to catch her breath. His manacled hand found hers, grappled for her wrist, and with one sharp movement, broke it with a crack. She wheezed a scream as her wand flipped out of her numb fingers, arcing over her head. Malfoy hurtled himself after it, lunging over her, crushing her with his weight. He caught it just before landed. Then, he lunged backward, freeing her, allowing her a moment's breath and panic. He unchained himself with a flash of gold light and a loud _pop_ , and threw himself atop her once more. Hermione struggled beneath him, kicking her legs, jutting her knees, trying to find some way to dislodge him, disarm him, escape from the man who wanted to kill her, who wanted to eat…

All thought stopped as his hand encircled her throat. He pressed so tightly that his thumb and forefinger brushed the sofa's fabric. Her unbroken hand shot to his, desperate to work his fingers loose. He growled and pressed her wand hard against her temple.

"Healers and their arrogance," he said, his lip curling in disgust. "Or perhaps it's _your_ particular brand of arrogance I should be thanking. The one that makes you think you can save the world, that you can _change_ people. Part of me had hoped that the war would shake you of your naïveté, but I confess: I am grateful that it hasn't."

Malfoy's chest heaved as he held himself above her, teeth bared in a menacing grimace. The most she could manage were quick, shallow breaths. Her face was on fire, her eyes full of tears. Darkness encroached and then, inexplicably, his grip loosened.

"Please, let me –"

He cut her off with a short, violent squeeze. "Begging is below you, dearest. If you care to keep your teeth, you will not do it again."

"What are you going to –"

Malfoy shushed her, stroking the side of her neck with his thumb. "I am going to do exactly what I planned to do ever since you sentenced me to rot in this infernal prison: _escape_." He looked around her office. "I should probably begin soon. I imagine these wards are going to be difficult to break."

"I could… I could help –"

She cried out as his backhanded slap jerked her head to the side. He dug her wand even harder into her temple and tightened his hand.

"Don't treat me like they do, Hermione. Don't _lie_."

"I wasn't…" she gasped. "I haven't…"

He cut her off with a sharp laugh that held no humour. "I am not a moron. You may have wanted to help. You may have been sincere with your offer of level reassignment and increased privileges. But Chilton? The Castellan? The Wizengamot?" Another humourless laugh. "They would use my memories, I'm sure. I've seen men commit some truly heinous acts. I've heard plots that, even today, could destroy what little progress you've made. But would I be thanked for it? Would I be granted so much as a congratulatory meal?"

He smiled and shook his head. "I think not. Though I have to credit you, Hermione. I do believe you would have tried."

Malfoy regarded her fondly. Hermione tried to swallow, and his grip loosened as her throat worked beneath his firm hand.

"Are you… Are you going to kill me?"

She hated asking it, hated how trapped, and small, and hopeless it made her feel to vocalize her fear.

Malfoy pressed the length of his body against her, overwhelming her with his wiry strength.

"Would you like me to?"

Her body trembled in reply, and Malfoy smiled. It was a genuine, transformative expression that nearly made him look human. He resumed stroking the pulsing vein along the side of her throat.

"Oh Hermione, haven't you been listening?" He licked his lips and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His lips moved against her skin as he said, "I'm not going to kill you." He withdrew and lifted her chin up. Their eyes met. "The world is much more interesting with you in it."

He pressed a final kiss to her lips and licked them as he drew away, closing his eyes and reveling in the taste of her blood. When he opened his eyes again, they gleamed with promise.

"I cannot say the same for Potter and Weasley, however."

She gasped. "Draco, don't –"

And then, nothing. A flash of red, and nothing.

~*~

When she woke six hours later, her nose was healed, her wand was missing, and Draco Malfoy was gone.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the quotes I adapted from source material:
> 
> “I eat the rude.”
> 
> “That is how our relationship must work. Quid pro quo.”
> 
> “You may ask a question that I may choose not to answer.”
> 
> “Thoughts of me? How titillating.” (I’m pretty sure that’s in there!)
> 
> “People may say we’re in love.”
> 
> “I want a cell with a view of more than grey sky. I want to eat a meal that doesn’t consist of overcooked rice and undercooked beans. I want to sleep on a mattress made of something other than straw and on a pillow that doesn’t smell like urine. I want a hot shower, a clean shave, and a pair of shoes.” He looks at her once more. “I want my life back, Granger. I want to feel like more than just a worn cog in an old machine. Can you do that for me?” - Not the exact quote, but close enough that it deserves credit.


	4. Bonus - Interview with the Author

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interview with the author.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!
> 
> First, if you've made it this far, thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed my story. If so, please let me know via a kudos or a review, or even a look at some of my other work!
> 
> Back in 2013, when Hawthorn and Vine was still up, this story was voted as one of the Featured Submissions. Because of that, I got to do a little Q&A about the story. I'm posting it here as bonus content to satisfy any curiosity you might have, as well as to sate some of my own nostalgia. :) 
> 
> Enjoy!!

**Interview with the Author**

Hi everyone! Thank you so much for voting “Painful and Necessary Acts” as one of November’s Featured Submissions. I wrote this story for the 2013 Dramione Remix on LiveJournal, and it certainly fits the bill of Dark!Draco and, to a lesser extent, Dark!Hermione. Most of you know the “How” and “Why” of my fandom career, so I’m just going to focus on this story specifically.

I apologize if this Q&A reads as the obsessive rantings of a Fannibal. Sometimes, I just can’t help myself.

 

**What inspired you to claim this couple?**

All the way back in 2011, after Remix Round 1 finished up, the mods asked for suggestions for future couples. Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling from _Silence of the Lambs_ was mentioned, and I just about exploded. I wanted to read this pairing so badly that the idea of them remaining unclaimed hurt. But they’re a rather unconventional couple, so instead of claiming them right away, I waited.

And waited.

And _waited_.

When this round came up, I could no longer contain myself. I decided that the world had waited long enough for a Hannibal/Clarice remix, and if no one else was going to write it, then by golly, I would!

 

**Um… _Why_?**

Because I’m in love with Hannibal Lecter.

Weird? Maybe. It certainly creeps my mother out.

But there’s just something about Lecter that I can’t escape. He’s charming and dangerous, civil and unhinged, charismatic and untrustworthy. If I had a problem, I’d want him to help me solve it, even though he’d probably flambé my brains when I offer to cook him a “Thank you” dinner. I _root_ for him. In a sick, twisted way, I _want_ him to win.

I’m still not sure why I feel this way. Maybe, like my mother suspects, there is something wrong with me. Maybe I’m just a sucker for charming words and an interesting face. Or maybe it’s supposed to be this way, and I’ve simply fallen into an author’s trap. No matter, I suppose; I’m certainly not complaining.

 

**How did you come up with the plot?**

When I claimed my couple, I immediately saw this scene:

_The day was as they always were: windy, cold, and colourless. Everything was tinged in shades of grey, blue, and black, occasionally lined with the grey-white of ocean salt. Yet another part of prison life Draco despised. The constant spray of seawater made it so that he never felt clean. Salt was a part of him now, thick in his shaggy hair, clinging to his skin, and stinging his eyes so that he had to wince against it. The lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper than they should be, making him look older than his twenty-seven years._

Draco in Azkaban was a great start. Once I discovered why he was there, and how Hermione fit into the mix, the story became surprisingly easy to put down.

I did toy with the idea of reversing the roles – making Hermione the “psychopath” and having Draco be “sane” – but I had trouble twisting Hermione that severely and still having her be recognizable. I try to avoid slapping the ‘OOC’ warning on my fics whenever possible, and Draco fell into Lecter’s role without too much grumbling, so I decided not to fight it.

 

**Why did you choose to include cannibalism?**

Lecter and cannibalism go together like fava beans and a nice chianti. I think the story would have been missing something had I not included it.

Moreover, cannibalism is a taboo. It’s disturbing and horrifying on a primal level, and it elicits a very visceral response. As an author, my goal is to evoke these kinds of reactions, especially when writing horror. As cannibalism is a very understandable squick for a lot of people, I knew that my read count wasn’t going to be as high as I’d like, but this was an acceptable trade-off for me. I was prepared to sacrifice the quantity of reads to preserve the quality of my work, and I’d do it again.

 

**What are your favorite things about this story?**

The research! Not like I need an excuse to watch _Silence_ , of course, but it was fun to approach the movie from a critical/analytical mindset.

I loved, loved, LOVED writing Draco’s dialogue with Hermione. The tension between Lecter and Starling in the film is undeniably raw, and I wanted to capture that same balancing-on-the-edge-of-a-knife feeling in Chapter Two and Chapter Three, particularly.

I also enjoyed turning Hermione against herself. I got to use everything we love about her – her bravery, her quick decision making, and her compassion – as manifestations of a long-repressed psychosis. A psychosis only someone with a similar sickness could recognize.

 

**Is there something about it that surprised you?**

I’m surprised at how well the rationale for Draco’s crimes was received. I knew what his crimes were, but struggled to come up with a believable motivation to let go of _that much_ of his humanity. The reason I chose (no spoilers here!) was one that I’ve used before, and I kept it because of the looming deadline. I don’t regret it (I actually made a deadline! Yay!), but I am disappointed that I couldn’t think of something better before it was due. I think it’s the weakest part of the story and am honestly surprised that no one called me out on it!

 

**Do you have a favorite line of dialogue?**

Oh Merlin, I have to pick just _one_? I lifted (with credit) several of my favorite lines from the source, but this one stands out to me:

  
_Granger frowns. "I don't trust Smith's report."  
"And you trust me?" Her mouth tightens, but she does not deny it. Malfoy smiles and licks his lips. "Careful, Hermione." His voice is a whisper; his silver eyes gleam. "People may say we're in love.”_

“People will say we’re in love.” What a LINE! I nearly leapt from the couch when I first heard it. This is Lecter’s careless, teasing arrogance at its finest, and Starling’s fragile expression after its utterance lends his words all the truth they need to be honestly horrifying. Because the thought it terrible, isn’t it? What if the man you love is the worst kind of monster, one that defies the constraints of _psychopath_ or _cannibal_? I get the shivers just thinking about it!

 

**How did you come up with the title?**

It’s notoriously difficult for me to distill the essence of a story into a string of one to five words, so a story’s title is typically the last thing I write and takes a good week to discover. This one was no different. It came to me as I was falling asleep.

I was pondering cannibalism (as one does), and my foggy mind made the connection that cannibalism usually isn’t done out of boredom, or for fun, or because chicken just doesn’t sound appealing tonight. It’s done for survival. It’s done for religious reasons. It’s done to fulfill a _need_. In the case of survival, cannibalism is a last resort, and I cannot imagine, cannot stretch my mind far enough away from my cushy life, to even begin to understand the type of duress a human must be under to turn eating another person into a suitable alternative.

Of course, Draco did not resort to cannibalism for survival (at least, not in the traditional sense), but he had to lower himself in other ways. Submit to physical or mental pain in order to achieve what, in his mind, was a necessary outcome.

The yield? Cannibalism: a painful, but necessary act.

 

**What do you want people to take away from this story?**

I want to convert the non-believers. I want people to turn on _Silence of the Lambs_ one chilly, winter evening and sit on the couch two hours later with their mouths hanging open and their hearts beating hard. I want them to fall in love with Lecter and envy Starling. I want them to be horrified and titillated, and I want them to wonder how the hell that’s biologically possible. I want other people to love this plot and these characters as much as I do. I want to create Fannibals out of as many Dramione shippers as possible, because why the heck not? I think it’s what Lecter would do. ;)

 

Thanks again for voting, and I sincerely hope you enjoy(ed) the story. Ask me anything!


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